<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Night on Bald Mountain by theobscurepotato</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318460">Night on Bald Mountain</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theobscurepotato/pseuds/theobscurepotato'>theobscurepotato</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Possession, Dark Magic, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Possession, Prophetic Visions, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roach as metaphor, Sex Magic, Some Plot, Tenderness, Violent Sex, Whumptober, oh hey, some porn, sudden softness and recovery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:28:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,258</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27318460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theobscurepotato/pseuds/theobscurepotato</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Interesting?” Geralt repeats through gritted teeth, but she does not elaborate. Her touch on his forehead is cold as she presses her thumb between his eyes. The old woman dips her fingertips into the bowl a second time and runs three red fingers from his lips to his chin. </p><p>“Welcome to the Hunt, White Wolf,” she smiles sharply. “You may walk the Path tonight."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>176</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Abby's Witcher Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I tried to tag appropriately, but let me add extra warnings here: non-con elements due to possession, non-con drug use, rape-y vibes in Chapter One. If this isn't your cup of tea, stay away. (If you need more details, feel free to message me). Chapter Two is fairly soft, but obviously references earlier events. </p><p>Game elements/characters/locations but this takes place before the Cintran banquet (pre-Ciri).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“He ain’t here,” the child says, wiping a finger furiously under his nose. “Most everyone’s headed up the mountain for the festival.”</p><p>Usually, it was the big cities that tried to stiff him. Folks in the smaller village knew the value of a witcher's work still and usually paid a full pot. But this contract in the tiny village at the base of Bald Mountain had been nothing but trouble since the moment Roach had thrown a shoe next to the message board. </p><p>“The alderman and I had a contract,” Geralt says, gripping the bag tightly. The leshen bones still ache with the old magick through the cloth and set Geralt’s teeth on edge. It was a difficult contract. “It just...took a little longer than expected. Can you tell him I’m here?”</p><p>“No, no, no,” the boy says, stamping his foot and waving his hands. “I said he’s up the mountain. And Ma says I can’t go up alone.”</p><p>Geralt kneels down. “Even if a witcher escorted you?” The child rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. Geralt is suddenly put in mind of Jaskier and hides a smile at the memory of the bard. He tries again: “Do you know when he will come back down?” </p><p>“Not til the morning,” the boy says, jamming a thumb in his mouth and looking across the village. “It’s the Festival of the Ladies. It’s the <i>most important day </i> for grown-ups so no one can bother them. But-- Hey, I know!” he suddenly shouts, and grabs at Geralt’s sleeve. “You can see Mother Thecla. She’s the voice of the Ladies, Ma says. Even the alderman listens to her. She decides who goes up and down the mountain and she’ll see to your bag of bones, mostlike.” </p><p>“Mother Thecla?” Geralt asks, and the child nods vigorously. “Yeah, Old Thecla. Follow me!”</p><p>He follows the child across the village to a tall wooden gate. Crowds of villagers are milling around the entrance to the mountain path, shouting and singing and drinking. The boy pulls his finger out of his nose and points at an oilcloth tent pitched near the gate. “There!” </p><p>“Thank you,” Geralt says and the child sticks his tongue out, laughs, and runs back across the village. </p><p>A thin young woman steps outside the tent and crosses her arms. “Weidzmin,” she spits, like the word is a curse in her mouth. </p><p>“Mother Thecla?” Geralt asks.</p><p>The woman doesn’t answer, just ducks back into the tent, so Geralt follows. </p><p>The tent is strangely spacious on the inside. An old woman sits on a low wooden platform in the center of the room. She is dressed in old ceremonial robes that must have been splendid a hundred years ago. Now the embroidery is dull and threadpicked. </p><p>The wise woman lifts her head. Her eyes are covered with a milky blue film. “Daughter, who approaches?”</p><p>“The wiedzmin that the alderman hired. It is old and ugly with yellow eyes, like a cat, and smells of death.”</p><p>Geralt throws the bag at the old crone’s feet. “The death you smell is the leshen from the contract. It was also very old. And ugly, too. It had lived in your woods a long time.” </p><p>Mother Thecla claps her hands together and cackles. “The Ladies will be pleased. The forest god dead at last, and on tonight of all nights.” She turns toward the younger woman. “Give him his coin.” </p><p>The daughter counts the coins outs slowly in the dirt. She places them into a small woven bowl and hands them to him. “Your payment, witcher.” </p><p>Geralt studies the coins in the basket. The full amount - one hundred orens, no more no less. The reddish dust clings to the coins making them momentarily appear washed in blood. The leshen had been one of the Old Ones - something beyond monster and man - filled with wild and powerful magicks. Yet only took a group of peasants and a bag of coin to seal its fate.  </p><p>“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says drily, emptying the coins into a cloth pouch. They turn their faces from him as he leaves.</p>
<hr/><p>Geralt nearly reaches the path down the mountain when a familiar voice calls from behind him, "Geralt!" and suddenly Jaskier is embracing him. "Fancy seeing you here, friend!”  </p><p>Geralt clasps his shoulders and they grin at each other. Jaskier is dressed in deep blue doublet with silver detailing. His dark hair curls around his ears in the Toussaint fashion, making him look even younger than at their first meeting. He is, of course, slightly drunk. “Geralt, are you staying for the festival?” </p><p>“No. Was just here for a contract. Leshen. Besides, didn’t think I was the target demographic for the Festival of The Ladies.”</p><p>"Psh, I’m sure it’s the usual old life-death-birth-renewal sort of thing,” Jaskier laughs, making a vulgar gesture with his hands. He is, as usual, a flutter of words and rapid movements. “Samhain by a different name. The songs are all about deer and wolves and the close of the season - typical autumnal sexual allegories - but some <i> extremely </i> interesting chord progressions, potentially elvish in origin-” </p><p>Geralt momentarily places his hand over the bard’s mouth and feels Jaskier smile against his palm. “Stop. I wasn’t planning on staying.” </p><p>“And for those less interested in the fine arts: plenty of food, women, and wine,” Jaskier continues. “Plus your very best friend in the world. Your best friend who has missed you terribly these past few months and only by this lucky trick of fate reunited with you.” </p><p>Geralt gives an exaggerated sigh. “Fine.” </p><p>Jaskier laughs delightedly. “Brilliant! Now, before the fires are lit, we have to both visit the old crone. Only those with Mother Thecla’s blessing are allowed to stay past nightfall.” </p><p>“There may be a problem, then,” Geralt says. “We’ve already met and I don’t think she likes me much.”</p><p>“Geralt, how long have I been soothing the troubled waters of your reputation?" Jaskier says, linking their arms and leading him back towards the tent. "It’ll be fine. I’ll charm the old hag, you’ll see, and then the night is ours!"</p>
<hr/><p>The old hag is, in fact, charmed. Jaskier sits cross-legged in front of Thecla while she spends -in Geralt’s opinion- an inordinately long amount of time caressing his palm. </p><p>"We are honored to have you," she says. At her words, the daughter hands her a wooden bowl. She presses her left thumb into its contents and smudges a dark blue crescent onto Jaskier's forehead. "It has been years since the Stag has visited us. Not since the time of my mother's mother."</p><p>"A very long time ago," Jaskier says solemnly, and winks at Geralt. Geralt gives him a warning look. “A stag, hmm? I would have thought maybe a lark, or a fox-”</p><p>“-Or an obnoxious bard,” Geralt finishes for him and the old woman turns her head sharply towards him. There is something predatory in the way she holds the witcher in her milky white gaze, something about the tilt of her head and the flair of her nostrils that made Geralt feel...scented. Seen. </p><p>“Now your turn, wiedzmin,” she says with obvious distaste, holding out her cupped hands. He hesitates before placing his hand in hers. She traces the curves of his palm.  </p><p>“Interesting.” Her tone implies that it’s the bad sort of interesting. “The White Wolf.”</p><p>“White Wolf? See Geralt, even here-” Jaskier interrupts before he notices Geralt’s glare and sits back on his heels. </p><p>“Interesting?” Geralt repeats through gritted teeth, but she does not elaborate. She nods to her daughter who hands her a different bowl, carved from bone. Her touch on his forehead is cold as she presses her thumb between his eyes. She dips her fingertips into the bowl a second time and runs three red fingers from his lips to his chin. </p><p>“Welcome to the Hunt, White Wolf,” she smiles sharply. “You may walk the Path tonight. I need a word with your companion, however, before he joins you.”</p><p>“I’d prefer we go together,” Geralt says, as Jaskier pulls him to his feet. </p><p>“The Stag is important,” the daughter says firmly. “He has a role to play. He will join you on the mountain.” </p><p>“Come now, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his hand resting on the witcher’s shoulder. “Go get yourself a drink and some food and I’ll be up shortly to hear all about your leshen contract. And for myself-” he nods at Thecla and her daughter, “Allow me to respect the fine traditions of the Bald Mountain villages and their Ladies with this stag business.” </p><p>And with that a key is pressed into Geralt’s hand as he is ushered out of the tent. Geralt turns the key in the gate and begins the climb to the festival clearing.</p>
<hr/><p>“Hey you - witcher!” A ruddy-faced man waves him over to a group of men with their faces bearing the same red marks as the witcher’s. “Come join us!” </p><p>Geralt takes a seat next to the bonfire. “Thanks.” </p><p>“Of course! Never had a foreigner participate before, but you got the Ladies’ mark on you after all.” The man points to his own face, the red smear on his forehead and the lines painted on his chin before taking a pull of his goblet and placing it in Geralt’s hands. The witcher drinks. The metallic tang at the front is unpleasant but the pleasant warmth of the spiced wine spreads through him. “Never heard of the Festival of the Ladies before,” Geralt says. “Hope there’s more drinking and less dancing.” </p><p>The man laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Was nothing but famine and sickness until the Ladies came and chased away the old gods. It’ll be a good night, tonight,” he says, and gives an exaggerated wink to his companions. </p><p>Personally, Geralt thinks there is still much famine and sickness in the faces of many of the villagers he’s seen, but he remains quiet.</p><p>The goblet is pressed into his hands again. “Have a drink, witcher. They save the good stuff for those marked for the Hunt.” </p><p>“The hunt?” Geralt takes another long drink. It tastes better the second time, honeyed and warming.</p><p>"The Hunt," one of the other villagers says, placing extra emphasis on the second word. "The ladies require it. But it's also a fun chase for us, better than the Beltane fires. Maybe get yourself someone to warm you better than this wine, witcher."</p><p>"Maybe so," Geralt says. "Better than dancing, anyhow."</p><p>"Oh, it'll be much more fun than that," the man says, taking the cup from him.</p>
<hr/><p>"Drink up, witcher, the night is cold!"</p><p>Each sip tastes finer than any Toussaint wine and the cup fills and fills and fills again. He's glad Jaskier asked him to stay -but where is the bard, anyhow?</p>
<hr/><p>There is a shadow rising from the bonfire. He jumps to his feet. His silver sword is with his gear which is ...somewhere? The shadow remains planted in the fire but reaches its arms out and stretches over Geralt and darkness is all he can see--</p><p>When Geralt comes back to himself, he is still seated at the edge of the fire. Two women with the same blue crescent on their foreheads as Jaskier’s are wriggling in his lap. He feels heavy and warm and he can feel their hands on him while the fire keeps drawing his gaze. </p><p>He should be cold - knows in his mind that the bonfire could only do so much against the chill of the fog rolling in- but the liquor burns through his veins and he feels a concentrated warmth within his chest.</p>
<hr/><p>There is a shout and a second bonfire is lit when he finally spots Jaskier in the dancing crowd. A wreath of Feainnewedd is tied across the bard's brow. The small red flowers look like drops of blood. </p><p>He tries to call out to him, but a strange heaviness weighs upon him. He sits frozen as Jaskier turns toward him. The blue of his eyes when he meets Geralt's gaze is dark, dark, nearly black, and even at this distance Geralt sinks into that look, feels a strange hunger start to rise. Jaskier's doublet is unfastened and his chemise is hanging open, and he takes a halting step in Geralt's direction before a laughing blonde woman grabs his hand and the circle of dancers closes around him.</p><p>Geralt feels hot and dizzy as he stares at the swaying crowd. The fire blazes hotter and higher while his medallion buzzes and burns around his neck.</p><p>A dark-haired woman takes his hand and pulls him into the dance. As they sway together, the shadow slips from her lips and into his mouth and as his consciousness flickers, he feels that hunger rise again.</p>
<hr/><p>He runs through the fog. His pack surrounds him but, foolish men, he is the White Wolf and hunts alone. He picks up that warm prey scent and presses forward.</p><p>There are figures writhing together around him, lovers coupling together in the mists. He hears shrieks, and laughter, and presses on.</p><p><i>Not for me, </i>he thinks.</p><p>He is far from the fires now, running deep into the woods. The scent leads him to the river and the cold water threatens to quench the fire in him somewhat but he presses on.</p><p>There are footprints in the damp earth leading to a cave. As he steps forward, the torches at the entrance blaze alight. A figure kneels on the dirt of the floor flanked by three tall, beautiful women. His hands are bound behind his back and a wreath of Feainnewedd is tied across his brow. The figure in their arms struggles, then looks up at him with hazy blue eyes. There is a brief flicker of recognition as their eyes meet, before the flame within him burns it away and the shadow descends on him fully.</p><p>His voice echoes through the cave: “I am the White Wolf, Lord of the Hunt, and I will claim what I am due.”</p><p>The women giggle and clap their hands. “We know you, White Wolf,” they speak in unison. “We are the Ladies of the Wood.” The blonde woman steps forward. “To the victor, the spoils,” she says, smiling sharply. “Come claim what you are due.”</p><p>As she speaks, the brunette unstoppers a ceramic carafe and a smoky, herbal smell fills the cave. The blonde pulls out a carved knife and in a few quick movements, cuts the clothing away from his body. He shivers as the dark-haired woman annoints him with the scented oil and three pairs of hands rub it over the curls on his chest, letting the oil drip down his stomach and thighs. His erection curves heavy and untouched against his stomach.</p><p>He bares his teeth at the sight. In the torchlight, the shadows around the younger man’s head look like antlers. There is a scent of fear on the air and that arouses him more than anything else.</p><p>"Delicious, is he not?" she asks, pouring some oil into her hand before sliding it slowly up his length. “Such a pretty thing,” she coos, then squeezes him. “Now stop fighting and say it.”</p><p>“I submit to the Lord of the Hunt.” The voice is two voices or more, a familiar tenor and something much older. The words roar in his ears as something snaps within him and the White Wolf rushes forward, dragging the man out of their arms and pressing him into the ground.</p><p><i> He struggles, the Stag struggles, but this is the way of things, better than the old ways, just the simplicity of the powerful overtaking the weak…</i> He pins him down, then uses his knee to push trembling thighs apart and his hand to guide himself forward. Despite the oil he is met with resistance and he growls, forcing himself deeper with each desperate, uneven thrust, the tightness nearly unbearable. Suddenly, the man beneath him moans deeply and in one vicious thrust he is surrounded by heat. The body beneath him bucks wildly as he ruts into him and nothing exists beyond this: the slap of flesh on flesh, and the smell of iron and salt, and the pressure of nails digging into soft flesh.</p><p>He pulls out slowly and flips the man onto his back. It feels like a baptism, sinking slowly back into the warm deep as he rocks into him, picking up speed, and the body beneath him jerks and screams, bringing the smell of seed spilt and warmth across his stomach when the shadow pushes him deeper -</p><p>
  <i>Darkness.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He stands at the base of the tower. There is a storm around him and he can barely see, except for a swallow darting in and out of the clouds.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>A swallow. Zireal.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The swallow circles the tower again, frantically, but the tower will not welcome her. And then three crows emerge from the darkness.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>White Wolf, they say with one voice. What a gift you have given us. The Veil is pierced, the vision true!</i>
</p><p>
  <i>There is a roaring in his ears as they dive towards the sparrow.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Child of the Elder Blood. Child of Time and Space.
They cackle and caw as the swallow throws herself against the stones of the tower.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Zireal! he cries, and the swallow falls, and the ground gives way, and he is in the stars and hurtling toward earth and -</i>
</p><p>He slams back into his own body and into the body underneath him, biting deeply into the junction of throat and shoulder as the man screams again. The magic is pulsing through him and he thrusts wildy, mindlessly and then he is coming, spilling deep inside, thrusting through a white arc of pleasure.</p><p>There are tears unbidden on his face when the magick at last breaks and a choked sob before panicked blue eyes meet his, and -</p><p> "Geralt?" </p><p>-everything goes black.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Ah, Geralt, you're awake!"</p><p>Geralt opens his eyes to Jaskier leaning over him. The bard is wrapped in a blanket and despite his smile, his eyes look hollow, frightened. The room is lit with the dying light of the torches and the first light of dawn. They are, Geralt notes with relief, alone.</p><p>"The villagers brought up some supplies for us...after. There’s more blankets --and food. They said that the Ladies, the Ladies were <i>pleased</i>." It was rare for Jaskier to stumble over his words this like. </p><p>The blanket slips and Geralt sees the imprint of teeth at Jaskier’s throat. <i> His teeth.</i> Fragments of memory come back to him as he stares at the ugly purple bruise. Without thinking, he reaches out and touches his fingertips gently to the mark.</p><p>“I’ve hurt you,” Geralt says. “Jaskier. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Jaskier breathes slowly at the contact, his pupils nearly black. He smells salty-sweet...like fear. The realization hits Geralt like a blade to the heart, and a hot wave of shame overtakes him before Jaskier's arms are around him, clinging fiercely to him. They both sink into the embrace. "S’ my fault," Jaskier mumbles into his neck. "I made us stay. It’s not your fault, Geralt."</p><p>“You couldn’t have known,” Geralt says. “I felt something was off and I ignored it. Put us both in danger.” He shifts on the pallet and pulls Jaskier closer to him. His medallion buzzes at the contact. </p><p>Jaskier stares at the medallion. "Why is it humming? Am I --am I changed?” His voice rises in pitch. “My skin has felt all cobwebby since -- since all this happened. Geralt, what--" </p><p>Geralt is already shaking his head. “Sex magick is often chaotic," he says hoarsely, not meeting Jaskier's eyes. </p><p>“Chaotic,” Jaskier repeats with narrowed eyes. His voice is odd. "Is that something Yennifer taught you? What does 'chaotic’ mean, exactly?" </p><p>"There can be an echo of the magick that lingers, afterward. Especially with the strong magicks. The conduit can still be open."</p><p>Jaskier's eyes widen. "So, I'm stuck waiting this out? Geralt, my skin is crawling."</p><p>"Waiting it out can be dangerous," Geralt says, keeping his gaze steady on a curl of Jaskier’s hair. "You aren't a mage, or a witcher. But sometimes, sunlight is enough to break it. Or it can be dissipated by sex," Geralt finishes, pretending not to feel Jaskier stiffen in his arms.</p><p>"Have you and Yenn -- nevermind, I don't want to know how you know these things," Jaskier mumbles into his shoulder, the faintest hint of bitterness creeping into his voice before he sits up and climbs to his feet. His movements are stiff.</p><p>"Sunlight, you said?" Keeping the blanket wrapped around himself, he walks barefoot to the cave's entrance. Geralt rises and follows. Jaskier closes his eyes and tilts his face up toward the light. They stand there together, as the sun lifts above the trees and warms their faces. </p><p>"Well?" Jaskier asks finally. Geralt steps in front of him, cups the left side of his face. The wolf medallion hums at the contact. </p><p>"Fuck," Jaskier sighs, opening his eyes, and Geralt kisses him. </p><p>"Oh," Jaskier says, a soft, surprised sound and kisses him back in earnest. The buzz of the medallion fades to background noise as Geralt pulls him closer.</p><p>"Darling --" Jaskier begins, and flinches. "Geralt," he says instead, quietly. "Geralt, you are my best friend in the world. You don't owe me this."</p><p>"I'm sorry," Geralt says. "We can find someone else." He hesitates. "Plenty of women in the village, if you'd like--.”</p><p>“I’d like you,” Jaskier says, quietly, wiping at his eyes. “It's just that I imagined this all” -he waves his hand - “in <i> slightly </i> different circumstances.” </p><p>"I would offer it," Geralt admits,"because I do owe you this. But I am also being selfish in offering it." And he meets Jaskier's eyes, tries to convey in a look what he lacks the words for.</p><p>"I --fine. More than fine. Yes," Jaskier nods and nervously runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Just not, not back in the cave."</p><p>“Hold on,” Geralt says, and he moves quickly before Jaskier can nerve himself out. He emerges into the cave and drags the pallet out onto the grass, into the sunlight. He makes a second trip and returns with blankets and salve and a tin cup of water. </p><p>“Here,” he says, and Jaskier takes the cup from him and drains it in three swallows before letting it fall to the grass. He lets the blanket around his shoulders fall next and stands naked before him. His body is a litany of bite marks and bruises and oil and mud. “A little worse for wear,” Jaskier says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Geralt can hear his heart beat race. There is a smear of dried blood and come on his inner thigh and the sight floods Geralt with shame.</p><p>"Lay down," Geralt says softly, gently pulling Jaskier down onto the blankets so he is laying on his stomach. He pours some of the oil onto his hands. Thankfully it smells nothing like the scented oils from last night. Geralt rubs circles into his shoulders, feeling Jaskier relax under his touch.</p><p>When his oiled hands press lower, past his tailbone, Jaskier flinches and grabs his hand and his voice trembles as he stammers: “I, um, I don’t think I’m quite up to that, even with a healing salve.”</p><p>Geralt shifts and shakes his head. “You don’t have to, like this. It should still work if -- I thought you could use it on me?” he stammers and swallows. If witchers could blush, his cheeks would be pink. </p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier says with a small smile. He still smells like fear but it is joined by the faintest lick of arousal as he takes the jar from Geralt’s hands. “That is -- that would be lovely."</p><p>And now it's Jaskier’s hands that are on him, caressing and pulling; Jaskier who pulls him towards him with surprising strength in his wiry arms and presses against him. They are cock to cock for a breathless instant before Geralt feels clever fingers at his entrance, opening him, first one, then two, then three fingers. Jaskier's eyes are closed in concentration, the tip of his tongue touching his upper lip, attending to Geralt's body with the same sort of intensity he reserves for composing. </p><p>"Please," Jaskier says, turning, and Geralt presses him onto his back, straddling him, and lowers himself down slowly, slowly until Jaskier is deep inside him.</p><p>"Fuck, Geralt," Jaskier breathes, his eyes wild, and Geralt stays very still, savoring the impossible fullness as Jaskier's hands grab at his hips. </p><p>"May I kiss you?" Jaskier asks hoarsely and Geralt nods and leans over him. His whole body shivers as Geralt kisses him deeply. He rolls his hips and Jaskier moans into his mouth, and he pulls back to ride him in earnest. </p><p>Jaskier pulls him down for another kiss while he thrusts up and into him. Geralt lets himself brush the hair from Jaskier's face, feels something in his chest stutter as Jaskier presses a kiss into his palm. He'll never tell him, but he's never been the receiving partner in his few dalliances with men, never trusted anyone enough for this. But Jaskier doesn't notice, or doesn't care, as he wraps a hand around Geralt and strokes him in counterpoint to his thrusts, murmuring impossible, tender things even as he quickens the pace. </p><p>When Jaskier moans and his hips jerk wildly through his climax, Geralt replaces his hand with his own and comes in quick succession all over his hand and stomach.</p><p>He lets Jaskier slip from him and moves to lay next to him. Jaskier turns and presses his face into Geralt's neck, reaching with one hand to grab the wolf's head medallion. It stays blessedly silent and unmoving and they both sigh in relief.</p>
<hr/><p>Jaskier sleeps while Geralt watches. He wonders idly if the villagers would return, or if having left the supplies, they would instead wait for their return. He'd like to raze it to the ground, the whole cursed village and their Ladies. Not since Blaviken has he felt this sick, oily rage. </p><p>From the looks of the sun, it is about noontime when Jaskier finally awakens. His eyes are barely open before he inhales sharply and scrambles away from Geralt. Blue, frightened eyes meet golden ones for a long moment before Jaskier blinks and shakes his head. He manages a weak smile.</p><p>"I --sorry, Geralt, I was dreaming," he says lamely, passing a hand across his face, "I'm not--" He sighs, and moves slowly closer, "Please, like you were. Unless, unless I misunderstood?" </p><p>Geralt keeps Jaskier's face in the periphery of his vision, unable to meet his gaze. "Jaskier, are you afraid of me?" he asks, and there's something more vulnerable in this ask than even the intimacy of this morning, but he absolutely has to know. "I would understand. If you wish me to leave." </p><p>"Darling, it's quite the opposite of that," Jaskier says as he leans forward. His kiss is a gentle, sweet thing that Geralt returns gratefully. "Never afraid of you, my dear witcher, not even from the first." </p><p>"I'm glad," Geralt rasps as he brings his arms around him.</p><p>"The Ladies, however," Jaskier continues, propping himself up on his elbow, "the <i> Crones </i> ...that will probably haunt me for a while. So you know that. I saw their true forms when they --when they put their hands on me." He visibly shudders." Ugly, distended, blasphemous things. I think, Geralt --no, I know, that they, um, they eat people. I saw things when I was" he waves his hands "not-me. In the tent."</p><p>"I think," Geralt says, closing his eyes briefly at the memory of the tower and the swallow, "that they do a lot worse than that, Jaskier." </p><p>"Will you kill them?" </p><p>"I don't think I can," Geralt says. "I don't know if things like that can ever be fully killed."</p><p>“This is the worst pillow-talk imaginable,” Jaskier says suddenly, and laughs. It's the laugh of Jaskier the Bard, Jaskier the performer --the laugh Jaskier uses to hide his nervousness or discomfort, so Geralt knows that the topic of the Ladies is tabled for now. It will resurface later, in a conversation, or a song, and they'll work through it then, in whichever way he needs. </p><p>"Shall I tell you instead," Jaskier says in a tone Geralt can't quite place, "Shall I tell you instead that I’ve been in love with you for years, but I’ve been too much a coward to do anything about it? Could you accept that?"</p><p>Jaskier looks at him to gauge his response, half like he's the best thing he's ever seen, and half like he's afraid Geralt will sprout a second head. He's different, Geralt thinks, holding his gaze. He's different from the youth he met in Posada: more confident, more compassionate, more clever, more brave and loyal and good than Geralt would have ever thought. And Geralt is different too, for knowing him. Better. </p><p>"I could," Geralt says simply. Jaskier studies his face and the corner of his mouth tilts up in a smile at whatever he reads in Geralt's look. "I could do more than accept it. I'm not...eloquent, like you, Jask. But it's the same for me. Now, let's leave this place." </p><p>He pulls Jaskier to his feet and they dress themselves as best they can from the supplies left for them. </p><p>"Ugh, I can't wait for my own clothes...and a bath...and my lute...and my shoes," Jaskier says, looking down at his bare feet. Geralt grunts in agreement. Maybe, he thinks, they can make their way south to Toussaint. It would be a few week's ride. He'll bring it up tonight, once they've hopefully found an inn where Jaskier can rest and heal for a few days.</p><p>Jaskier looks at the path ahead and Geralt can see him steeling himself, the unconscious movements of his hands that always signal his nervousness. </p><p>"I'm fine," Jaskier says to Geralt's look. "Let's get back. Doubtless Roach is waiting. She probably misses me, poor girl."</p><p>He winks, and Geralt snorts, and they begin their slow walk back together. </p><p>"Roach has been with you a long time, hasn't she?" Jaskier asks suddenly. He's a little behind Geralt now, taking careful steps over the fallen leaves.</p><p>"I got this Roach before Posada. A horse can live up to thirty years, if you care for them. Of course, she won't do thirty years on the Path." Geralt frowns. How long has it been since Posada? </p><p>Jaskier's voice is a little too casual when he asks, "So what will you do when our dear Roach is too old for the Path?" </p><p>Geralt pauses. "Take her to Kaer Morhen, I suppose. Give her some years of peace. But that's a ways off, yet." Vesemir will grumble about his sentimentality, as usual, but she'll be there for his every return, until one day she isn't. </p><p>"I wouldn't just leave her, Jaskier," he says, pointedly. Roach is more than just her usefulness. “She matters to me." </p><p>"Ah. That's good, then." Jaskier has caught up to him by now, so Geralt sees his quick smile. "I'm glad."</p><p>The sun is warm in the fall sky. Summer is gone, but winter is a long way off, yet. Jaskier starts to hum some simple, familiar melody, a smile on his lips, and when he reaches for his hand, Geralt allows himself to smile too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ok, so the update was a liiiiittle longer than I thought. Hopefully it hits the spot for my fellow darkness/softness folks! Thank you all for reading! ❤</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>